


Simmer Til Done

by Missy



Category: Army of Darkness (1992), Evil Dead (Movies), Evil Dead - All Media Types
Genre: Adjustmets, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Humor, Post-Canon, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheila struggles with the rigors of modern cooking, and Ash offers his help. </p><p>"Help" being a relative thing where Ash is concerned, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simmer Til Done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BJackson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BJackson/gifts).



> From the Domestic Fluff prompt meme, option #32 - Cooking Together.

A loud clatter - followed immediately by the sound of archaic cursing - greets Ash as he enters the apartment. Knowing fairly well the sound of his frustrated girlfriend at work, he approaches cautiously. Very cautiously. And discards his dirty work smock by the door so she won’t complain about his tracking blood through the house before making his approach.

The pot that sails by his ear, barely missing his right temple, tells him that this is an excellent idea. 

Quickly, he opens the door and peers inside - and notes all at once a puff of translucent white smoke, the scent of scorched flour and the sight of Sheila sitting at the table, a glass of wine in her hand and a frown marring her face. 

The words come from him unbidden. “D’you have a good day?”

She fixes her eyes on him, looking exactly as she did the afternoon she smacked him upside the head with a rock. A chill runs down his spine, and Ash has to stop himself from backing down and out of the room. “No,” she says tartly. “Thy fires are most perplexing and the book of cookery archaic.” 

Ash is surprised she can read at all, but he manages to hold his tongue for once, stepping all the way inside and closing the door. “What happened?”

“I wert intent on making thee a beef roast, but the flour turned black with deathly speed.” She eyeballs his stove and Ash is somewhat relieved to have the intensity of her gaze shifted away from his face. “I fear’d the whole place would burn.”

Her tension is making him tense in turn. “Relax,” he says lightly. “The stove won’t kill ya.” Another glare. “Anymore,” he amends. “Why don’t we take a look through the book? There’s gotta be another way to cook the beef up….” He reaches for the discarded cookbook and flips idly through the pages, trying not to remember that these are Linda’s books, Linda’s old recipes. He picks one out at random. “There we go. Beef stew.”

“I had planned that for late in the week. But if I could not get thy bakery to behave, how does thou believe I shall be able to make thy hearth work?”

“In modern times,” Ash says grandly, “We call it a rangetop." He spends a little time rooting the long-unused soup pot from its hiding place over the stove. A quick puff of air gets rid of most of the dust crusting the interior; he places it on the stove, crams the book into an upright position between the wall and the coffee maker, and starts gathering spoons and cups long disused to measure with. “Here,” he says, flicking the heat on and handing her a quarter cup measure, then a bottle of vegetable oil. He finds the stew beef sitting in the freshly-restocked freezer and returns the roast. Sheila has already uncapped the oil and poured it into the measuring cup by the time Ash comes back with the meat. “You only need this much oil to start. Heat it up and put the beef in, I’ll wash the vegetables.”

She stares at him, anger obvious in her eyes. “I am not a child.”

“Didn’t say you were,” he says. “Just watch the food. Turn it around with the spoon ‘til it’s brown.”

He heads to the refrigerator, hearing the oil hit the pan, listening to the sound of it percolating up in the pan, followed by the sizzle of cold meat hitting the hot oil.   
His eyes widen reflexively as he takes in the array of vegetables she’d picked up. Sheila loves the farmer’s market; it probably reminds her of haggling in the village at home, and he has to admit watching her fight her way toward a better price fills him with pride. Her skills have provided well for them; he pulls bags of waxy yellow potatoes, thick knobby orange carrots with thin skins and thin-skinned onions out for use. Those don't belong in the refrigerator of course, and he'll tell her so later, when he's prepared to deal with her anger. Deciding himself done, he grabs one more addition - some fresh green beans - and kicks the door shut.

The sink is empty and clean, and the water cool as he spins the taps. And so Ash cleans and she cooks, each on opposing ends of the room, together and a thousand miles apart at the same time. Yet he can feel her behind him; the warmth of her body, the quiet sound of her humming. This suits Ash; a peacefully distracted Sheila is a happy Sheila, and he intends to bring her some small measure of comfort - to keep her happy - for as long as possible.

By the time he’s cleaned the potatoes the meat is done. “Is it brown enough?” she wonders.

He comes to check. “Looks it,” he decides. “Turn the knob,” he says. “Left for lower, that’s right...no not right-right, you had it the first time." The heat decelerated enough to keep the meat warm without burning it. "C’mon, help me chop.”

He cleans off counter space, handing her a thin, sharp-edged steak knife, taking one for his own use. There is something weirdly companionable about standing there and chopping vegetables with her, scraping the skin from carrots and potatoes before handing them over to her to be cut, but it felt right, almost cozy, her elbow brushing just under his ribs as she swings the knife with grace and speed.

He finds himself sneaking little glimpses of her face as they work. She’s beautiful, standing there with steam from the pot curling her forelocks, her mind far away from this menial task, unaware of the beauty of her body. Wanting to kiss her, Ash tilts his head toward her face…

…and lets out a surprised gasp as Sheila pulls his left hand out of the path of his knife.

“In my time,” she says, “we call that a near miss.”

He is smart enough not to complain. The rest is simple enough to do; pouring beef stock and crushed tomatoes and wine into the pot, adding flour and fresh herbs to the mix to thicken it. She turns the pot down to simmer while he stirs it about. 

“It’s gotta cook for a couple of hours,” he says, setting a timer. “So, how you wanna pass the time, baby?” 

He wiggles his eyebrows. She smirks. 

“Do ye know how to make bread in this iron beast?”

Ash wraps his arms around her. “No, but I’ll let you bite my buns.”

Whatever other baking-related puns he might have spoken die on the back of his tongue as she drags him into a kiss.


End file.
